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User blog:TheDarknessRises/Bond Villains vs Dark Knight Villains
Ah, users! welcome. Welcome to a place where no good exists, a world where there is only evil, in the form of those who persue it as a proffession and those who use it as a hobby. A World where those who were good, those who fought for the losing side, are gone- and all that is allowed to remain, are those who honestly threw aside what was right, and replaced it for a more sinister, vile, evil, and all out better world. I am TDR, and welcome, to my first battle. ---- The Bond Villains; The Genius and Meticulous men, all with a grudge to hold against the Agent 007, Bond. James Bond. All with their plots to destroy MI6 or rule the world, with a gun in their hand and a grin on their face. Nobody is more feared across the world then the men that are willing to face off against the British Government. Villains from across the ages, From the smashing success of Goldfinger to the new Blockbuster Skyfall, four villains will be chosen to face off against- The Batman Villains; The vicious and evil villains that are all ready, to break, scare, and weaken the Dark Knight, the Silent Guardian, and the Watchful Protector: Batman. Using a variety of vicious schemes, it takes more than a couple punches and stabs to rule the Criminal Underworld of Gotham City. From the Award winning Christopher Nolan series that tell the tales of the Batman, four will be chosen to come bakc at the Bond villains in full attack mode. Who will win in this Epic Battle of criminal masterminds? This is the only way to find out. The Bond Villains Pictures= Oddjobstanding.jpg|Oddjob Jaws.jpg|Jaws Silva.jpg|Raul Silva Chiffre.jpg|Le Chiffre |-| Oddjob= The Henchman of Auric Goldfinger, Oddjob is a trained Martial Artist and has abnormal strength, with the ability to break the mantle of a fireplace with his foot and can break a hand rail with his tough fists. |-| Jaws= The man with Iron teeth is proven to be one of the most popular Bond Villains of all time, with great strength and teeth that can cut through a majority of materials, he is one of the most formidable opponant ever. |-| Raoul Silva= The computer Hacking, MI6 headquarters destroying, and agent killing, Bond villain with MI6 agent training from his days as an agent before his 'accident' with Hydrogen Cyanide. |-| Le Chiffre= The Banker to the world's terrorists organizations- Chiffre is suspected to have helped fund the 9-11 attack. He is able to capture Bond with his intellect and has faced him many times in Casinos. Batman Villains Pictures= scarecrow.jpg|Scarecrow banebattle.jpg|Bane jokerbattle.jpg|The Joker twoface.jpg|Two Face |-| Scarecrow= The Psychiatrist Dr. Jonathan Crane is the Scarecrow. Creater of a fear toxin, he releases it through out the city which (whilst wearing a mask) unleashes those who breath it in's greatest fears. |-| Bane= The revolutionary strongman, trained in the league of shadows, is able to both Break the Batman and wreck Gotham City. He is an unstoppable mountain with an iron mask that he breathes through. |-| The Joker= The psychopatchic killer who takes control of the Gotham Underworld and causes the Batman more emotional pain than any other villain, pushing the vigilante to it's limits, and to the breaking point. |-| Two Face= The district attorney turned Gotham criminal with half a face, caused by a trap set by the Joker, burning the left side of him in gasoline. Now to determine the fate of his enemies, he uses the flip of a coin. Voting Voting is Closed Battle We sat there, the five of us, locked behind the cell doors. The screen rattled to life, reminding us of why we were in here. The cell’s capacity was two, but the people who put us here didn’t care much, for all they cared we could either starve to death or become cannibals- and we were determined to not let that happen, not give the reestablished order what it wanted. All five of us had stripped down to our under-shirts and under-pants; The AC was broken -and as legend around here has it- on purpose. There was a single bunk bed in the cell, and none of us- being the strong men we are, used it. We preferred to sleep on the floor or the benches, letting the roaches eat at our moistened skin then relish the comfort of the beds while our brothers suffered. I gazed down upon my badge, as the electric lighting in the cell weakly illuminated it, faintly reflecting the words etched into the metal. ‘Officer Hanford’, it read, ‘Gotham City Police Department’. I remember the days when that used to mean something. The days when wrong was never right, where injustice was afraid to show its face in front of our men in uniform. But now it means nothing. I raised my head to view the screen. The static blurred the faces and the words. The voices were faint, but I knew what they were saying. They said the same things every day, over and over and over. I no longer needed to hear them, I could recite it on spot, and sometimes I would even repeat them to myself to sleep. It was the broadcast on GCN about the event. How a month ago, all good fled from this city, when the night was darkest. The men in charge called it re-birth, and those who went along with it were promised it would become better. They were promised a new Zion, right over the mountain, a world where they could have the power, a world where they could choose for themselves, but the more they repeated it- the emptier the promise became. But there was nothing the others could do about it, they caught themselves in the storm, but they never knew it would last forever. So on they went with their lives, promising themselves hope where the men who led them to this state of government couldn’t. They were owned by the mob now, a deal with the devil they should have never taken. Dr. Crane is why we are here. Is seemed as if the day before yesterday he was running the criminal underworld, picking on the defenseless, the insane and the weak that were unleashed from the now-in-rubble Arkham Asylum and our new home Black Gate Prison. But now he is nothing. He runs a small mob on the east side of Gotham, he pretty much rules that part of the town, but it’s not that much. Legend has it he moved most of his operation underground, in the sewers, but that can’t be true. I know that’s not true- because that’s Bane’s territory. He is the one everybody fears. He’s made good relations with all of the mobs here, Joker’s mob, and such, but they all know not to cross him. They say that Gotham belongs to Bane, and to many that’s an understatement. While most of the city’s remaining population isn’t loyal to any mob, we all know who we’d choose if we had to pick. Bane’s mob only had between fifty to one-hundred men, but it’s spectacular what he’s done. He’s who keeps us fed, who keeps us well, who keeps us alive, all at the cost of our loyalty. He runs Black Gate prison, where we stay. After all, during the time after the crumbling of Gotham, around ninety to ninety-five percent of the population left, so we and the insane guys from Arkham make up the majority of the citizens. So even if you ruled the city, you didn’t hold much ground. After all, you’d only be in control of about fifty cops, about seventy-five crazies, sixty criminals, and about ninety citizens. That is, if you could keep the crazies under control. You see, Gotham is mainly run by two people, Bane, and the Joker. Bane takes the criminals, the Joker takes the crazy people and the twenty-five normal people that aren’t loyal to either of them but are still part of the mob belong to Scarecrow or Two-Face. The Joker made his home in Wayne Tower, the once shining symbol of this city. The owner Bruce Wayne left at about the same time everybody else did- when the Batman died and our hope in a future perished. The Joker takes his trips to the crumbling ruins of Arkham Asylum about once a day to check up on his gang members that live there. It’s ironic- that’s where they began their journey, and that’s where their journey takes place: though they don’t seem to mind. At least they aren’t all sleeping in the courthouse with Harvey Dent’s men. Two-Face usually bases his operations in the first two floors of the courthouse, the only parts of the building that are either still intact or safe. A place he once knew very well from his days as the District Attorney, but those days have passed. He’s turned the place into a Casino of the sorts. Once Gotham’s Casino ran out of all of its cash, he quickly gathered the slot machines and Roulette Wheels because the man just can’t keep his mind far from chance. This is how the days usually went by, day after day, hearing stories being told between cells, us cracking bad jokes with each other, and sleeping on the floor. It soon became the norm until our routine broke once the thunder came. ◘◘◘ There was nothing you could do to stop it. It seemed so unstoppable the way with blasted its way through the air as if it was a dragon, roars blasting from deep inside and the wind twirling around it as if the beast was it’s master, and it was not difficult to believe. The aircraft slowed its propellers just enough, so that it save it the decent down onto the hollow empty streets. The rubble from old buildings tossed their way down the street as the chopper made impact with the torn asphalt. Dust billowed from the earth and pebbles tossed themselves across the quiet streets, the hum of the helicopter slowly fading as the propellers buzzed down to a final halt. Once again the streets regained their silence as if nothing happened. The silence lasted for minutes as the monstrous helicopter waited in complete and utter muteness. This had attracted the attention of two men, patrolling the streets with hand-guns gripped in their tight, motorcycle glove coated hand. They stepped no further then to be able to see the machine in its glistening sleek grey glory upholding the most respect beyond most military standards. The metal aperture on the side of the helicopter slid open; a loud clash ran out as the door collided with the breaks on the track. One man dropped his light pistol and reached behind his back, gawking the whole way, to retrieve his rifle. He crouched on one knee and aimed his rifle at the open outlet on the side of the fortified beast. As if on cue, a curious man, dressed in a brown vest and slacks, topped with an egg-white coat slowly exited. Clearly a man of stature in a part of the world less deserted. He strapped on a glove, as it tightly wrapped its form around the man’s hand as he reached for his side, grasping an imaginary gun, using his thumb and his index finger to symbolize a firearm. “Hello there.” Mr. Silva said in a British accent entwined and clipped with Spanish jargon, paying no attention to the armed threats before him as he straightened his jacket. He looked up, as if surprised at their presence “Do you live here?” He looked around, noting the emptiness of the city. “I’m so sorry.” He raised his arm, still pointing the finger gun. He made a ‘pew’ sound with his mouth while jerking his index finger back. An eruption of bullets shattered the silence as the two men fell to the ground, the backs of their heads hollowed out with at the least ten bullet holes in their face as they fell to the ground. A van drove around their bodies, with a man with an automatic rifle stood through the sun roof, tires screeching with each maneuver of the wheels. The vehicle jerked to a halt as the van door slid open and five men stepped out, four armed with guns, the other standing in resolve with his senses gathered. The five approached Raoul, and the unarmed man retrieved a poker chip from his pocket. He stared down at it with sunglasses shading his eyes with a quiet but determined look on his face. He looked back up. “Silva?” He said, with a French slur to his voice. He snapped his fingers behind his right shoulder and two men stepped back into the van. Raoul Smiled and nodded his head, showing his glowing white teeth. Chiffre took a step backwards as the men reemerged from the van, with a brief-case. They passed the case to Chiffre who out-stretched his arm, prepared to pass it to Silva. Silva retreated, arms up shaking his head. “Not yet” he said, chuckling and shaking his head. Seven figures exited the helicopter; all armed with Heckler & Koch rifles. They assembled behind Silva as one was selected by the man, whom then stepped forwards and unlatched the brief-case, opening it up to reveal its contents. In the padded surface sat a small black oval-shaped mechanism. It was sleek to the touch and underneath the glassy coating were the computerized words, ‘scan thumbprint’. Silva laughed and stepped forwards tilting his head to the side examining the man. Chiffre stood up taller, as if uncomfortable by Silva’s sudden interest in him. Silva snatched the mechanism from the briefcase and put it in his pocket. He reached out for Chiffre’s face, wrapping his brown gloved hand around his sunglasses. Chiffre remained unmoved as Silva removed the glasses from his face- examining the scar around his eye. Silva reached out his other arm, touching a finger to Chiffre’s scar, and then running his finger down the side of his face, rotating his finger as it fell, his fingernail placed against Chiffre’s jaw line, Chiffre, still unmoved and firm. Silva sighed and took one more look in Chiffre’s eyes as he stepped back to his men. “I believe we can begin then.” Silva reached out his hand. Chiffre sighed and snapped for the van’s driver to step out of the car. Out stepped a large oriental man in a classic vest and top hat. “Oddjob, give it to him.” Chiffre directed as Oddjob advanced, placing the van’s keys in Silva’s hand. Silva smiled and stepped toward the van as his men followed, without stopping. Chiffre clicked his tongue as Silva turned around smiling. “Ah, you just wouldn’t forget would you?” Chiffre didn’t smile as he glared at Silva with a curious look of wonder in the man. Chiffre had given Silva what he wanted; now the terrorist leader wanted what he paid for, a city of terrorist soldiers he could use in his exports. But it all began with one more things he waited for Silva to give to him. Silva sat there in tremendous thought, trying to figure out what it was Chiffre had wanted. He dropped his head to the floor, his blond hair succumbing to the forces of gravity as he thought about Chiffre’s need. He lifted his head. “Ah yes” He smiled, “Your motorbikes” he cleared his throat. “Jaws will help you with that” He pointed into the open void in the helicopter just as he jumped into the driver’s side of the van, driving away with his men. In the darkness of the inside of the massive Helicopter, a large but faint outline of a man sat on the other side. The figure stood, slightly rocking the steel chopper as he hoisted himself up. He reached his arms out in a welcoming stance smiling in a devilish fashion. The gleam of metal bounced off his teeth, illuminating his mouth in a violent flash of silver. “Bikes are in the back” He said in a deep Soviet accent, directing their eyes to the far back of the chopper. ◘◘◘ “''There's a thousand pretty women waitin’ out there, and they're all livin’ devil may care”''' The music rattled the hollow halls as the vicious ''click ''of poker chips shot out like bullets in the silent room. Cranks were beings pulled as wheels spun around- people smoking on their cigars and cigarettes as laughs –short and brief- were exchanged between people. ''“And I’m just the devil with love to spare” The men mouthed the words as their eyes remained fixed on the slot machines. The song was blanketed in static as it hollowly flung itself from the radio. “Viva Las Vegas!” ''Everybody the courthouse screamed along with the music, raising their cigars and beer cups to the air, joyfully laughing a weakened laugh from the smoke in the air and the smell of nicotine on everything they touched. ''“…Viva Las Vegas!”''By the time the chorus continued on the second blast, people had already lost interest, and returned to their slot machines, poker tables, and roulette wheels. All but one poker table with a group of people desperately sitting, their gaze focused on the table as more and more chips were flung into the middle. They sang the song lightly for reassurance, the noise weakly penetrating through their mouth. “So I heard Scarecrow’s got a plan.” A man said, pushing more chips forward, “Raise to two-hundred” he played, dropping from topic for just that sentence. “They say he’s headed down into the sewers in a day.” He leaned back into his chair as Elvis Presley continued playing in the background. “He’s gotta be goin’ for Bane I bet he is.” A man joined in, spitting his cigarette onto the floor, stomping on it. “The guy don’t stand a chance.” “He must have some plan or he’ll just get curb-stomped”, another spoke up. “Or maybe,” A raspy voice added in, “He’s doing it outta stupidity- The guys greedy.” The man’s flesh rubbed against his face as he continued his sentence. “He had it all.” He watched as the last man pushed in all of his chips, the group around the table grumbled to each other. They flipped over the cards, “But he lost it…” Two-Face tossed in his cards, taking the man’s jackpot and the rest of the chips in the middle. “…To men like us.” He smiled. His face was ghastly, a horrific color, of age and deterioration- and the burnt side of his face wasn’t any better. The men on the table wailed their disgust at Two-Face’s third win in a row. They stood from the table and left as Two-Face chuckled at their weakness. He rested his legs, high atop the Poker Table, and retrieved his coin from his coat pocket. He glued his eyes to the coin as he flipped the currency around in his hand. He ran his fingernail down the rigid edge of the coin, vibrating his finger as he hit each individual notch. To him, when you came this far and you can’t even follow your own rules, the best judge in the world would always be in his pocket ready to close a case. He swept his blond hair from his face as he rubbed the deep cuts in his face from various fights, soon finding his way over to the burnt side of his face. Nature was playing its course; the skin was growing back, though it defiantly wasn’t as fast as anyone would have liked it to, especially him. He chuckled in grief as he tossed the coin into the air, catching it, and then lighting a cigar- leaning into his chair. ◘◘◘ The turns were tight on the Gotham streets, avoiding fallen light posts, abandoned cars, or open potholes. The group kicked up the dirt and rubble behind them as they sped towards the abandoned courthouse. Chiffre took off his glasses, tossing them into an abandoned car as he sped by, keeping a sharp eye on the road ahead of him. The courthouse was only two more blocks away once Oddjob caught up to him. The two nodded at each-other as the four other men followed behind. Oddjob took a turn on the first block down the street as Chiffre continued forward towards the courthouse, slowing down once he approached the steps. He hopped off of his bike and removed the red box from the back of a man’s motorbike. Placing it on the ground he got to one knee and opened it with a bronze key from his pocket. He slid open the lid, removing the ten explosives from the box. He walked to the main doors to the courthouse, looking inside through the glass, and returning back to the bikes. “I want one behind every-other support beam,” he handed the explosives to two men. “And one near every door.” He pointed at the three glass doors to the front Waiting Room to the courthouse. Chiffre drew his Sig Sauer, opening the clip and adding two extra bullets. He turned to his other two men as the two armed the explosives. “Vous souvenez-vous du plan?” The men slid their clips into their assault rifles that were strapped to their backs, nodding. Chiffre focused his attention on his own weapon. His SIG Sauer was latched onto his side, ready to be drawn when the time came. He retrieved his H&K from inside his jacket, checking the magazine for that firearm as well. Satisfied, he prepared himself as his men ran back to the bikes, weapons drawn nodding their heads. ◘◘◘ Two-Face waited patiently as another round of poker began; the folded and creased card’s numbers grew in his deck. He sat there, tapping his toe, rolling bullets around on the card table-top. A new song had begun on the radio’s speakers, the chorus bouncing the courtroom around as men lay on the benches smoking cigarettes, tossing knives across the room in a competition of who could hit the judges seat from the back, the roulette wheel spun as the click of the wheel threw the ball around faster. '' ‘Luck be a lady, tonight! ''Frank Sinatra’s lyrics played well in tune with the saxophone, as people laughed in joy. The twelve men in the courtroom that belonged to Two-Face’s gang gambled to the jazz music. It didn’t begin as their favorite song, quite the contrary, but Dent played the classic song over and over again every day, the room was divided into the people tired of the song, and those who began to grow on it. For some reason, Dent would play music all day long throughout the room, probably to keep their hopes high. But the static that echoed out of the speakers out of tune with the music made the room feel emptier, the more and more the smoke built up on the roof and the lights flickered, it lowered each person’s hopes, but the music kept playing. Two-Face gazed solidly as the dealer passed out the last couple cards. He reached into his coat, retrieving his revolver and everyone in the court room stopped. When Two-Face draws a gun that means somebody’s in trouble. Three people have already died from bullets riddling their bodies and heads from the death that spewed from the revolver. He slipped the bullets off the table and tossed them into the revolver, spinning the wheel, and clicking it back into place. He looked up in the silence, staring around the room. “Go on.” He spoke up, sliding the gun back into his jacket. The music continued as the men in the room continued their gambling. Two-Face put his hands on the card table as the courtroom doors burst open, the vicious sound of motorcycle engines tearing their way through the open space created by short bursts on the hinges, knocking down the doors. Bullets rang out as the men in the room lifted their firearms and shot at the men on the motorbikes. The helmeted men retrieved the firearms of their own, returning in full blast. The battle consisted of two men versus twelve, and the majority was losing. Three men in Two-Face’s gang were shot dead, two through the chest severing major organ’s and arteries, the other shot through the jaw, laying in agony as his shattered mouth hung barely by torn flesh. Two-Face himself stood, retrieving his revolver, and without taking a second look, shot at the men in the motorbikes. Bullets ricochet off one of the biker’s legs, cracking the bone, and into the bike, causing a leak in the gas. He flung himself behind the bike, using it as a shield as he re-loaded his machine gun- the other man doing the same, still firing his weapon. The havoc continued, and one more man was shot dead with a bullet in his skull. Two-Face crossed the room, retrieving his secondary pistol, now enraged at the men disrupting his day. He stood behind a man in his gang as he reached for the top and bottom of his skull, twisting it quickly as the body fell to the ground. He bent over, retrieving the Uzi that had fallen out of his hands and quickly shot at the ceiling, taking out the lights. He turned his aim towards the man just left of the door. He slowly forced back the trigger, letting the machine do the work itself. Bullets smashed their way through the bike, taking out spokes and shattering the headlight. The bike spun sideways at the pressure the bullets put against the bike, revealing the man hiding behind it. Two shots rang out from Two-Face’s gun as they found their way through the already injured man’s padded jacket, ripping past his ribs and puncturing a lung and his aorta. He fell to the ground dead as the odds were now stacked against the last man, leaving the teams one to eight. The single man fled, shooting his machine gun one-handed behind his back in the shadow of the room running back towards the light that flooded the room. Two-Face stood is silence with the rest of the gang as they waited patiently for something more to happen. After a minute, Two-Face stood tall and cleared his throat. “Well.” He spoke up, staring towards the ceiling, “Who knows of a place we can buy some lamps?” Glass fell from the ceiling as he continued to speak. “Alright then, we’ll burn bodies to give us light.” Light from the front door windows passed through the waiting room and into the courtroom, faintly illuminating the dust that passed through their beams. He clicked his tongue. “Alright, back to poker.” Every body turned back to their slot machines and benches as a faint tapping noise echoed through the room. Two-Face, already turned away from the door, froze. He raised a finger signaling silence and everybody froze. He turned, keeping a close eye at the motorbikes, glaring at the explosives propped up in the machinery. “Everybody get down!” He shrieked, as people launched their way under tables and benches, some clinging to the cracked tiled ground for their life. Two-Face himself launched his way over the railing into the Judge’s Box, laying flat on the ground. Smoked filled the room so quickly nobody heard the bang. A bright flash of light lit up the room on each side of the courtroom’s door, and everything went numb. Two-Face waited, and waited as his sense of hearing regained itself, still lying on the ground. The solid piece of wood that was shielding him from the two blasts was cracked, and there was a tear out of the judge’s seat, but Two-Face remained unharmed. He stood, seeing the back benches of the courtroom near the front, and Slot machines in pieces. His poker table was still intact though it’s stability was in question. Three men had died from the blast, maybe four, but those who were left were huddled under the poker table. “Javier!” He roared out towards a man under the table in a raspy voice. He marched his way through a gap in the railing, jumping over debris as a cloud of dust still hung throughout the room. The front door had widened, needless to say, and the plaster on the walls had been blown off. “Yes Sir?” A Latino man stood, blood dripping down his face from a piece of debris. “Get everybody up,” He pointed his empty revolver at the men under the table. “The fight still isn’t over.” The man in the windbreaker pushed everybody out from under the table, slapping their faces to get them awake. Two-Face turned back towards the gaping hole that was the door, realizing the lack of a safe exit, for all he knew, there was an army waiting outside of that clouded exit, still cloaked in a blanket of dust. The men still laid on their backs, coughing up smoke and rubbing cuts and bruises on their face. One man has a gash running down his jaw-line, another with pieces of splintered wood and metal in his jacket. He tossed a bullet into his revolver and fired it at the ceiling above the men. Pieces of the torn plaster fall onto the table and ground, forcing the men to stand. Turning towards the escape door in the back, he tossed a couple more bullets into the chamber of his revolver. His men followed behind him, but then two more men called out. The first was a faint call, asking for help from across the room, and then the second- a blood freezing shriek. The men turned, guns pointed towards the scream. The first man was trapped underneath the weight of a slot machine, the second laying next to the focus of the blast, blood pouring out of his ears, pooling up on the floor around him. Many other men, now dead, suffered from the same type of effect, blood dripping from their ears like a leaky faucet. The pressure in their heads from the blast came bursting from their ears, obliterating their eardrums. Two-Face stared at the bloody man in disgust, his gaze burning a hole into the scared man’s eyes. He raised his revolver and fired, a bullet smashing it’s way through the man’s left cheek, blood poured out as he continued to scream, surviving the shot. Two-Face raised his revolver once again, pulling back the hammer and letting the bullet propel itself through the air, embedding itself into the man’s third rib from the top, killing him. Harvey sighed as he shot off the door knob to the back escape door, kicking it open. He raised his revolver for a second time, firing it into the air for his men to follow. Two-Face closed his eyes, inhaled a monstrous breath, and then leap out of the door. ◘◘◘ The shot glasses clinked against each other as the four men rested on the bar. “Pour nous et notre victoire” Chiffre called out, and soon the African men fired their rifles as they cheered in Swahili, raising their glasses in time with Chiffre’s calling out, “kwetu na ushindi wetu!” The sun flew across the sky as the shattered clock along the wall rests the time it ran out of battery in a hollow figure and memory of the once great Gotham City. Chiffre looked down, filling his shot glass one last time –though of course in Chiffre’s case, each shot he takes will always be labled as his last- rubbing his thumb across the wooden surface of the bar, his thumbnail clicking as it ran across a dent in the wood. Chiffre gazed down at the impaction in the wood, running his finger over it multiple times. He rested a toothpick inside the crevace the shotglass impression had made, running it around through the circle. He pulled it back up, cigar ashes clinging to it as he examined the pick. He let out a satisfied humph as he tossed the toothpick into the trashbin, guesturing for his men to follow him to the back room. The four men entered to a small workspace behind a door in the wall. He entered into the surrveilence room, a small workspace with five or six tvs. He ravaged thorugh piles of tapes, passing out large stacks to the three men. “Inaonekana kwa njia hizi!” Chiffre grunted as he passed them out. Each man tossed a tape into the VHS players as they ran through hours of surveillance footage captured by the remaining camera. Chiffre tossed his first one in, violently pressing against the fast-forward button, viewing a pixelated image of an empty bar. The occasional man would walk through, unnarmed, he’d grab the large bottle of alchohol from the counter and run to feed himself or spend the rest of his day wasted in a drowsy heap. This is all Chiffre and his men saw, nothing any of them found impressive, they blew through the tapes’ first five hours without seeing a thing, a half-hour later the men were no longer watching the screens, rather, they viewed the lights above, flickering the memories of the hollow ghost they once stood over. Another ten minutes passed, with nothing more then the occasional homeless citizen going in to drown out his sorrows. Chiffre tightened his gaze, tears gripped down the side of his face as his eyes watered from the light shining from the screen. He raised his pistol and fired at the lights above, ripping the cord that kept the last light alive. The room was black forgive the screens, as Chiffre rewinded his tape. He tapped his gun to the screen, a hollow thud came from the glass. “Here.” He said, his speech thickly coated in a French accent. The screen showed a group of three men, all armed with rifles entering the bar. One of them sat down as the other two slung their guns behind thei shoulders. All were dressed in trench coats, the shadow of the roof obscuring their faces. The man sitting, raised a shot glass, banging it onto the table, embedding a circular mark into the wooden bar. He tossed the shot glass at the wall infront, shattering it, lighting his cigar. Ashes fell across the bar’s smooth wooden surface with each puff the man took. Chiffre launched his finger down, smacking the pause button, freezing the screen. He pointed at the time in the bottom right-hand corner- 11:37 a.m., two hours before Chiffre landed in Gotham. He grunted as he pulled his hand from below the table- 7:00 on the nose. The sun was pushing it’s way below the horizon,the sky becoming a paler shade of blue, to the East, the sky was a nightime blue. He clicked rewind, headed back to the day before, rapidly slapping the button to make it go by faster. He watched the clock on the screen: ''Monday, May 27th- 6 p.m. Chiffre increased his pressure on the button Monday, May 27th- 12 p.m. He hit the fast forward button, slowing down the screen Monday, May 27th- 11 a.m. A man walked through the door. Chiffre smiled as he pressed play on the screen, Two-Face once again entered the bar, this time with his whole gang. None were armed, but they all appeared ready to fight. “Dat’s the one dat shot me” A man said in a deep toned African accent. He pointed a bruised finger, cut and muscular, at the screen. The screen rattled to the touch as he placed his finger on the head of Two-Face as it turned toward the camera, a solomn expression painted across his features. Chiffre smiled once again, a more demonic grin, the way he does when his plan is going the way he wants. Once again he rewinded the tape, reviewing the same occourence every. Single. Day. ◘◘◘ Oddjob broke his way through the wooden back doors to the Gotham City Opera House, his motorbike’s wheels ripping through the fragile and deteriorated air. His pulled out a pocket watch. He’s been scolded for being old fashioned but that’s just how he was. It was 8 o’clock, he’s been patrolling the city since he split the group, the night was upon him and he needed a place to sleep, being so far from the group. He slid his pistol from his holster and paused in the doorstep. He turned, viewing the asphalt where a defaced bronze plaque sat, commemorating the death of the Wayne family. He ripped the flower from his vest, a dying carnation, it’s leaves rippling and curling, and tossed it, tipping his bowler hat. The carnation bounced off the graffiti covered plaque, planting itself in the shadow of the walls on each side. Oddjob’s shadow stretched through the alley, his body turning back to the opened door into the Opera House. He raised his pistol down the empty hallway and gazed at the wall, facing a sign pointing down the hall saying ‘Theater’. He grunted as if thanking the inanimate sign. He jogged down the blackened hallway, pistol raised he turned a corner in response to another sign. He found his way into the lobby, the soles of his shoes tabbed against the tiled floor in an ominous pattern. The place was mostly empty, the roaches scurried up the walls as the rats his behind the trimming. Oddjob stopped, he focused down the barrel of the gun, facing it towards the main doors to the theater. He took short breaths, remaining invisible as the sound of footsteps walked to the main doors from inside the theater. The door shattered. Chunks of wood flew every which direction, bouncing off Oddjob’s hat and suit, he laid down on his stomach, pistol pointed at the hole in the door as if his pistol was a sniper. Two shots rang out from his gun and a grunt bounced out of the theater, a thud following no later. Oddjob stood, wiping the splinters from his jacket, rubbing his finger on the trigger, ready to fire once more. He raised his leg and kicked at the door, which cracked the wood. He kicked it a second time, a piece of the door broke out, falling into the theater. He kicked once more, a larger chunk breaking out. He peered his gun though the gaping hole, firing off three rounds into the blackness. He straightened up and fired at the doorknob as he kicked the door in, the light from the fading light bulbs illuminated a body on the floor. It was an old man, about the age of 60; his raggedy whitening hair lay flat on the floor, a shot gun sitting next to him. Oddjob squinted. He bent down towards the man, observing the nasogastric tubes in his nose, a dark grey gas running through them. Oddjob squatted next to the man, running his fingers down the tube to the source of the gas. He retrieved a pocket knife and cut open the man’s shirt, continuing to follow the tube until it stopped. Embedded into his skin was a small tank in which the gas flowed through. Oddjob gripped his knife tighter, cutting into the man’s skin, blood poured out with his last heart beats. The blood was an odd color, almost black as if the tank had been broken and the gasses released into the body. He continued slicing, more of the blackish blood poured out, oozing from his open wound. Oddjob retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the blood from the rusted yet metallic surface. Category:Blog posts